Rainmakers, 1891

Eighteen months and not so muchas a spit of rain. Dirt stainsthe horizon red; tumbleweedsline fences around scorched fields.

Day and night, the boystear at the sky, countthe government’s dimes. No morehand-wringing, no more prayer—they fly bomb balloons, dynamite kites,shove explosives down prairie dog holes,cannons report in heaven.They say war makes the rain.

The engineer will happilyshow his letters, austeresignatures of all the decoratedofficers you please—they tell it the same— raging battle and invariably violent rain.

The last balloon blossomsinto a globe of fire, illuminatesevery object for miles—thenseveral dark seconds,silent and open as the mouths of onlookers— the inevitable crack, concussion,birds taking flight and somehowdistant lightning.